All the Single Ladies (8 page)

‘You know what those eggs made me realize?’ he added.

‘That I’d never get a job as a chef?’

‘Precisely,’ he smiled, then he looked at me intensely. ‘Not only that, though, Sam. They made me realize that I’m in love with you. And that there’s no way in the
world I can leave you.’

It’s funny how different attitudes can be to the old-fashioned concept of charidee. At one end of the spectrum, you’ve got the Bob Geldofs and Annie Lennoxes of
this world, those who put their heart and soul into making a difference. At the other end are the natural-born misery guts, who’d prefer to saw off their foot with a cheese knife than give
their last fifty pence to a
Big Issue
seller.

And somewhere in the middle you’ve got me. Although I hope I’m closer to the former than the latter . . . at least I try. Sadly, while I’ve got the conscience, what I
haven’t got is the time, connections or money. So instead of rolling up my sleeves and really getting stuck in, I make the small sacrifices at my disposal. Which in reality means one pair of
shoes fewer every couple of months . . . and more monthly standing orders than I could possibly reveal without giving the impression I’m an unmitigated sucker.

It’s the source of some amusement in certain quarters.

‘What’s this I’ve heard about you signing up to sponsor another kid in Africa?’ cackles Lisa, Jamie’s sister, before I’ve even entered the house. I’ve
popped in to see her on my way home from work, because if anyone knows the way to Jamie’s heart it’s her.

‘Oh that was a while ago,’ I mumble. ‘And it’s Eastern Europe.’

‘Foo-eee! You’re like Angelina Jolie, you are. You can’t save the world personally, you know! Aw, look – good on you. You’ve got no kids of your own, after all. I
remember those days well,’ she mutters, surveying the devastation before her.

I consider myself relatively easy-going when it comes to housework. I’ve never been one of those women whose kitchen cupboards resemble the filing system of the British Library and whose
toilet pan needs to gleam like Simon Cowell’s dental veneers. But even I feel a twitch of unease on entering Lisa and her husband Dave’s living room.

Neither has ever been particularly house-proud, but even if they had, the number of children they’ve produced in the last ten years would have decisively put paid to any prospect of an
OK!
spread. The lounge looks as though a category five hurricane has swept through it. That said, the couple’s four boys and one girl have the capacity to create more havoc than most
extreme weather conditions – despite being as cute as they are.

‘TWO SUGARS, ISN’T IT?’ she shouts from the kitchen as a three-foot plastic Tigger is torpedoed across the living room and ricochets off the patio window.

‘NONE THANKS, LISA,’ I yell, but I’m drowned out by four-year-old Suzuki employing enthusiastic karate moves against her little brother, Elvis.

‘Right – OUT!’ hollers Lisa as she appears at the doorway with two teas. ‘In the garden. Auntie Sam and I have things to discuss. And she’d prefer to do it without
two demonic kids trampolining on her.’

The children leave in a fireball of martial-arts moves, intercepted en route by their mother, who smothers each in so many kisses you’d think she hadn’t seen them for a week.

At thirty-three, Lisa’s five years older than Jamie, but you’d never guess they were siblings. It isn’t only their physical differences that are marked (though she has a
three-stone advantage on him). It’s also their personalities. She’s as naturally personable as Jamie and makes friends as easily – but, unlike him, her tastes are about as
bohemian as a Marks & Spencer ready meal. Today’s outfit sums it up: jeans with a Sunday-supplement waistband and a T-shirt in an eye-watering shade of orange that precisely matches the
awning on their caravan.

Not that it matters. Particularly because, in her husband’s eyes, Lisa is the most irresistible woman on earth.

‘Is Dave back at work after his throat infection?’ I ask.

‘Oh Dave’s grand. More than grand, actually,’ she winks. ‘I’ve just had my latest
special manual
delivered.’ The words
special manual
are
accompanied by exaggerated air quotes, which alone are enough to make me feel slightly queasy: I know what’s coming next.

She checks the kids are out of sight before grabbing her handbag and producing a small hardback book which she thrusts into my hands. It’s called
Ready, Steady, F***! Aphrodisiac
recipes guaranteed to spice up your sex life
.

I attempt to keep my eyeballs in their sockets as I flick through the pages; they boast a selection of exotic recipes, positioned next to a selection of exotic . . . well, positions.

‘Baked oysters and spinach . . . hot buttered lobster . . . chocolate cognac truffles. Sounds like a lot of washing-up for a roll in the hay with your husband, Lisa,’ I smile
awkwardly.

‘Why do you think I bought a dishwasher?’ she grins. ‘But enough about me and my libido. Let’s talk about my brother and what he’s playing at.’

I take a deep breath. ‘He must have told you what’s happened.’

She rolls her eyes. ‘I’ve heard about him wanting to discover himself. I’ve heard about him flying to the back of beyond to build mud huts and eat beetles for his tea.
I’ve heard about him still being in love with you, apparently.’ My heart rises as she says this, but she doesn’t pause for breath. ‘And in all bloody honesty . . .
I’ve never heard such bollocks.’

I open my mouth to speak.

‘Sam . . . you know I love Jamie and would do anything for him. Nevertheless, he’s being a grade-one arse. If they gave prizes for being a tosser, he’d have a cupboard full. He
is King Knobhead in my eyes. And I’ve told him as much.’

I realize I’m a tad shell-shocked by this diatribe. ‘You think he’s doing the wrong thing, then?’

‘Wrong thing?’ she blusters, throwing up her hands. ‘Look. We know that Jamie was cut from a different cloth from you and me. He’s always been a bit different. We knew
that when he was nine and he announced to Mum – on mince and chips night, no less – that he was becoming a vegan and he wanted her to make his Angel Delight out of soya milk. And, look,
it’s great that he’s different. In fact, it’s lovely. It makes Jamie who he is.’

I frown, taking this in. ‘You’re almost convincing me he’s doing the right thing, Lisa.’

‘I hadn’t finished,’ she says decisively. ‘What’s as important is that Jamie honestly and truly believes that he’s met the love of his life: you. And I
believe that too. The whole family does.’

I feel a swell of gratitude.

‘I just can’t help thinking, Sam, that while he’s entitled to never settle down, that won’t make him happy. He’s setting himself up for a life with no kids, no
proper family, no ties. And I know Jamie. Ultimately, that’s not going to make him satisfied. He loves kids too much.’

‘But he doesn’t want kids. He’s always said that,’ I point out.

‘He was playing with our Suzuki yesterday and didn’t even mind when she wired up his nipples to the Operation tweezers. The boy’s a natural,’ she says, thumping her hand
on the coffee table. ‘He just doesn’t realize it.’

I suppress a smile.

‘At the end of the day, this big adventure isn’t going to make Jamie happier or more content,’ she adds. ‘Only you are, Sam. If only the idiot would recognize
it.’

I close my eyes and put my head in my hands. ‘So what you’re saying is that I need to let him go to South America, do what he needs to do, and then realize he misses me?’

‘You can’t wait around for ever,’ she says, wide-eyed. ‘We need to stop him going.’

‘You think that’s possible?’

‘I’ll do my best, Sam,’ she replies firmly. ‘That’s all I can promise. I’ll do my absolute best.’

‘When you said, “Let’s grab a late lunch”, I thought you meant a couple of toasties at Costa Coffee,’ I tell Ellie as she orders a large glass of
wine in San Carlo. The restaurant is bustling with a suited-and-booted crowd talking costs, opportunities and a host of other corporate concerns. In other words, not what Ellie and I are about to
discuss.

‘Make the most of it,’ she replies, flicking her napkin on her lap. ‘When your friend wants to buy you lunch, don’t complain.’

‘How come you’re able to do lunch anyway? You haven’t broken up for the holidays yet, have you?’ I ask.

‘No, but I’ve spent the morning at another school for a moderating meeting. I was meant to be there all day, but it finished early.’

‘Right. I haven’t got long though, I warn you. I’ve got a million things to do when I get back to the office, especially as I need to leave early.’

She pours me some water. ‘How are you feeling about seeing Jamie tonight?’

I hesitate. ‘Fine.’ The reality is that as much as I’m desperate to see him, I’m also terrified. Which is ludicrous. This is a man in whose presence I’ve been
almost every day for the last six years. Feeling nervous around him is wrong. ‘I just want to play this right,’ I add.

She pops an olive into her mouth. ‘Well, remember: act cool. You might not be feeling cool, but act it.’

I nod and take a sip of water to alleviate my suddenly dry mouth.

‘And don’t – no matter how tempted you are – start discussing your relationship. Even if he brings it up, change the subject. We don’t want you saying anything that
could be interpreted as putting pressure on him. He’s got to decide things for himself. And we definitely don’t want you crying. So keep things . . . light.’

‘Light. I can do that,’ I say earnestly.

‘Don’t look so worried, Sam. Remember, you’re not there to analyze. You’re there to seduce.’

My eyes widen. ‘You never mentioned that before.’

‘I don’t mean sex,’ she says dismissively. ‘At least not tonight. But, absolutely you’re seducing him. You’re making him want you. The more desperately the
better.’

I nod.

‘Also—’

I groan and she smirks. ‘I was simply going to say . . . look amazing. Not that I’ve any doubt you will. You’ve lost weight, Sam. Don’t lose any more, will
you?’

‘It’s my
Belly Dance Abs Blast
,’ I tell her.

‘What?’ she frowns.

‘It’s the only DVD I’ve got left. I’ve only been doing it for a couple of days and it’s phenomenal.’

‘Never heard of it.’

‘It’s presented by an instructor called Princess Karioca. The thick Glaswegian accent is hard to follow at times, but she’s my new best friend . . . despite the fact that my
stomach muscles feel as though they’ve been attacked with a meat tenderizer.’

‘But you hate dancing,’ she points out.

I can’t argue with that. Dance floors are, to me, dens of evil inhabited by those whose coordination needs only to match that of a penguin in the throes of a psychedelic trip to show me
up. But it seems there’s an exception. ‘Not belly dancing,’ I shrug.

She raises an eyebrow, dipping her bread in some olive oil. ‘Is that a spray tan?’

I gasp. ‘Can you tell?’

Knowing I was seeing Jamie today, I slipped this into my schedule yesterday after work, requesting that the coating applied was in the most subtle shade possible. Unfortunately, given that my
‘tanning technician’ was herself the colour of a teak sideboard, it’s little wonder she ignored me, instead spraying so enthusiastically that she should really be moved on to the
production line of a Xsara Picasso.

‘I can tell – but he won’t be able to. Men have hardly got a trained eye for these things. So what are you wearing?’

‘Combats, Superdry shirt – the first thing I threw on,’ I wink.

‘Ha! All brand new?’

‘Obviously,’ I grin. ‘Plus, a little help in the bra department.’

‘Chicken fillets?’

‘Even better. A little something I saw reviewed in one of the Sunday papers.’ A waiter appears at our side with our pasta dishes, so I never get the chance to tell her.

‘Another large glass of wine, please,’ she instructs him. ‘Oh come on, have one with me. I hate drinking alone.’

‘That’s never stopped you,’ I point out. ‘And no, thanks. Honestly, I’ve got too much on.’

‘Fine,’ she pouts. ‘But I’m having another.’ As the waiter disappears, she raises her glass, and the drop that’s left in it, to ping it against my water.

‘Here’s to winning him back, sister,’ she grins. ‘You can do it. And if you can’t . . . then he’s not worth having.’

When I get home, I set to work on my appearance. I spend twenty-five minutes blow-drying my hair in a style that has the appearance of having taken twenty-five seconds. I apply
a mountain of make-up designed to look as if I’m wearing none. And I smear on a volumizing lip gloss bought this afternoon on the basis that, although I’ve never really thought my lips
needed volumizing, it can’t do any harm.

But what I’m most excited about is the ‘little something’ I never got to tell Ellie about properly: my Miracle Cleavage Air Pump Bra.

This state-of-the-art boob-enhancing contraption makes my Wonderbra look terribly last century. It works on the same principle as an inflatable camp bed, but on a smaller scale and without any
need for a foot pump.

To look at, it’s simply an attractive, lacy, black bra; but it has an important twist. I put it on and follow the instructions.

‘With your thumb and forefinger, simply inflate your Miracle Cleavage Air Pump Bra to the desired level of volume.’

I give it a squeeze and examine the results in the mirror. Not bad . . . but could do better. I try the other one and decide that’s almost it . . . but not quite.

I take a deep breath and, with my hands in both cups, give a series of sharp, convincing bursts. Then a few more. And a few more for good measure.

I stand back and look at the results, which are . . . bloody magnificent, if I say so myself.

I’ve always fancied having bigger boobs. It’s not that I’m devastatingly flat-chested, but something vaguely in proportion to my bum would be nice. And much as I warm to men
who say they prefer women who are ‘natural’ – with no implants, no pads or indeed anything except the real deal – I can’t help thinking that what they really mean is
they prefer women who are natural Kelly Brook lookalikes.